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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28056096">I can hope (how this will end)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameless_bliss/pseuds/nameless_bliss'>nameless_bliss</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Every Breath That Comes Before [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Brief Sexual Content, Canon Compliant, Cuddling and talkin' 'bout feelings, David-Typical Anxiety, Episode: s04e02 Pregnancy Test, Introspection, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, POV David Rose, Patrick Brewer is Cuddle Slut, Post-Coital, Present Tense, pessimism, referenced sexual content, with a pinch of angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:35:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,870</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28056096</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameless_bliss/pseuds/nameless_bliss</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When David goes back to his empty bed, he’ll know how it feels to be… here. Patrick pressed against his back, tracing aimless patterns on his skin. David knows what it’s like now, and he already knows that he’ll never be able to un-know it. He’ll be able to feel the absence of it, when the time comes. Every new thing he learns about being with Patrick, every day, every detail. It all just makes the picture clearer. More complete.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Brewer/David Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Every Breath That Comes Before [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2055105</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>383</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I can hope (how this will end)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>David tries not to think about the sheets. He is perfectly aware that sheets are not <em> at all </em>what he should be thinking about right now, but alas. They tried to be careful, that’s the headline. That’s the part he’s going to tell Stevie. He’s going to tell her about the towels they put down, and the bedspread they took off, and the numerous times they mumbled something to the point of “careful, wet hand”. </p><p>He is <em> not </em> going to tell her that the towels were kicked to the floor somewhere between the first and second round, that the pillows weren’t given the same protection as the bedspread, or that hands were the least of their worries as far as wetness is concerned. Most of all, he’s not going to tell her that they didn’t think to check for a change of sheets until <em> after </em>their first mess had been thoroughly made, and they found themselves spare-less.</p><p>But honestly, if Stevie’s gonna let them have ‘privacy’ without providing so much as a single spare linen in her entire apartment, she’s forfeiting the right to complain. What kind of grown-ass adult only has one set of bedding, anyway? David decides that actually, he’s blameless in all of this, and he’s going to wash his hands of it.</p><p>God, he needs to wash his hands.</p><p>It takes a bit of doing to figure out which of the tangle of limbs belong to him, and then a bit more doing to figure out how to get them untangled, but he eventually sorts himself out enough to scoot toward one side of the bed. </p><p>“Where do you think you’re going?”</p><p>David rolls his eyes. “I am <em> going </em>to get cleaned up before the two of us are permanently glued together, thanks so much.” He starts to wriggle out from under Patrick’s arm— </p><p>“Uh-uh.” Patrick’s grip tightens, firmly anchoring David to the mattress. “I let you sneak away after last time. This time, you’re not allowed.”</p><p>“Yeah, I don’t really do pillow talk.”</p><p>“Too bad. It’s my favorite part, better get used to it.”</p><p>David makes an incredulous noise. “I’m sorry, what exactly about <em>this </em>warrants it being your favorite part? Swampy heat? The smell of bodily fluids? Being <em>sticky?”</em></p><p>“Yeah.” Patrick pulls David even closer, wrapping him up in an excessive amount of limbs and nuzzling into his hair like he’s trying to burrow for the winter. Their combined sweat hasn’t even had time to cool, and there’s an unpleasantly damp quality to the air hanging around the bed. Patrick is breathing too hard—David isn’t sure if it’s from the sex, or the swamp air, or if he’s just really into the smell of lube and come. But whatever it is, he’s basically panting, and squeezing David tighter by the second, and moaning much too emphatically for being post-orgasm, and… </p><p>And it’s cute. It’s gross, and David hates it, but it’s cute. </p><p>“What do you like about it?” David asks, partly out of curiosity, mostly because Patrick’s voice is still kinda rough, and that’s a nice thing for David to have in his ear. </p><p>Patrick hums. “S’nice,” he mumbles. “I dunno, it’s… it’s nice. Easy. Hard part’s done, and now it’s all soft and sleepy and… easy.” He takes another deep, satisfied breath. “You really don’t like it?”</p><p>David doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t know how say that that’s all backwards, that the easy part is the sex, that fucking is so much simpler than the quiet, uncomfortable afterwards. And he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to Patrick’s offhand admission that sex is a <em> hard part, </em>that he’s used to being happier when it’s over than when it’s happening. That’s too… much, it’s too heavy and real for what they’re doing… </p><p>But that’s probably the point, isn’t it? Patrick is pliable and needy and his voice is slurred and sex-stupid, and that’s the point, that’s exactly what he’s saying. And David doesn’t have the heart to ruin that. </p><p>So, he deflects. “I think ‘like’ might be a bit strong. It’s mostly just sweaty. Much sweatier and naked-er than it needs to be.”</p><p>“<em>Yeah,</em>” Patrick moans, and his hands immediately start wandering like he’s just remembered exactly how naked David is. The slide of Patrick’s palm is slippery with a cocktail of fluids and it’s <em>awful, </em>but he clearly doesn’t care. He’s as handsy now as he’s been all week—in the stockroom, in the backseat of his car, wherever they could cobble together a few seconds of seclusion—like finally spending a whole night fucking has only made him more desperate, not less. “You’re so—mmmpfh.” He tucks his face against the side of David’s head, and hitches his leg up over David’s hip, and runs his fingers through David’s absolutely filthy chest hair. And then he <em>squeezes, </em>with arms and legs and everything he has, tight enough to wring a terrible little squeak out of David. “Just feels so <em>good</em>.” </p><p>“Better than the sex, though?”</p><p>“David, this is the sex. This is still sex.”</p><p>That—</p><p>Hm.</p><p>David doesn’t know what to do with that—which is quickly becoming the theme of this conversation, and he doesn’t like that at all. “What, um. What’s… easier, about it?” </p><p>“All of it,” Patrick says, his voice still slurred like he’s fucking drunk on snuggling. “All the… all of it. You can… be. Easier. It’s easier to talk, say things. Can say anything.”</p><p>And even though it’s obviously a trap, it could be inviting something <em> horrible, </em>David hears himself ask, “Like what?”</p><p>Patrick breathes in against David’s skin. “I’m gay.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>He hasn’t said it before. David hasn’t asked. </p><p>And there’s a right thing to say here. Obviously. There’s clearly a ‘thank you for telling me I’m proud of you I support you it gets better’ sort of <em> thing </em>that you’re supposed to say to this, and David should know what it is. </p><p>But, he thinks… he <em> thinks </em>that’s not what Patrick wants to hear right now. So instead he says, “I’m pan.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Yes.” David lets that sit for a moment, before curiosity makes him prod. “You don’t need, like. A definition? Ask to use it in a sentence?”</p><p>Patrick breathes out a laugh. “David, I just figured myself out. Trust me, I spent some time looking into all my options.”</p><p>David cranes his head so Patrick can see his twisted-up smile. “You did <em> research? </em>Did you have a whole—was there a sexuality spreadsheet?”</p><p>“I had several sexuality spreadsheets,” Patrick says in that tone where David can’t be totally sure whether he’s kidding. “It actually ended up slowing the process down, though. I kept getting attracted to the spreadsheets, and I didn’t know what column to put that in.” He kisses David’s gross, sweaty forehead, then his gross, sweaty cheek, trying to coax him back into their gross, sweaty cuddling. </p><p>David eventually surrenders with only mild reluctance, but he adjusts himself so they’re not quite as <em> smushed </em> as they were before. They’re already severely past the point where they should have gotten up to shower, or at least find one of the towels for a cursory wipe-down. But apart from the disgustingness of it all, it’s also… not terrible. It’s surprisingly not terrible to be exhausted and sticky and thoroughly ignoring all the rules of proper post-coital conduct. David can’t go so far as to say he <em> enjoys </em>the full list of sensations, but he enjoys some of them. He enjoys Patrick, like this. He enjoys Patrick enough to rest his head on his shoulder, and close his eyes, and stay. </p><p>“Did you think I was straight?” </p><p>Patrick’s voice is light, like David’s response doesn’t really matter. But David is pretty sure that it actually matters a lot, and he’s glad that his honest answer is, “No.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Listen, as someone whose sexuality has never <em> once </em>been correctly assumed by a stranger, I like to make a point of not doing that? I didn’t think you were straight.” He hesitates. “But I didn’t think you weren’t, either. I intentionally had no thoughts.”</p><p>“But you thought I wasn’t interested in you,” Patrick counters. </p><p>“Yeah, ‘me’ being the important detail.” David shifts, because he needs his hands free to properly articulate this. “It wasn’t your feelings about men, it was specifically <em> me, </em>not my gender, my—I didn’t—Even if you were into guys, I didn’t think… I was your type.”</p><p>“And what was my type, in your expert opinion?”</p><p>David ignores the fact that Patrick is clearly enjoying this <em> far </em>too much, and maintains his indignation. “I don’t know, accountants? People who can calculate tip without using their phones?”</p><p>“It’s just one dollar for every five, David.”</p><p>“That’s disgusting.” </p><p>Patrick laughs. His fingers slowly twist into David’s hair, rubbing his scalp. Because he thinks this is a nice, easy conversation.</p><p>Which means that he doesn’t want to hear the real answer. He doesn’t want to hear how certain David was that Patrick would only ever be interested in one of his own kind: someone decent, a good <em> and </em>nice person, someone more—or, someone less… someone a different amount of… all of it. Someone who’s the right amount of person. David was sure that even if his gender was right, everything else was wrong. </p><p>And Patrick doesn’t want to hear that shit right now. </p><p>David clears his throat. “Since I was clearly very far off-base, what <em> is </em> your type?”</p><p>“Fuck if I know!” Patrick laughs again, loud and brilliant. “Took me thirty years just to get the gender right, you think I have any other specifics yet?”</p><p>David wrinkles his nose. “That’s not exactly the answer I was setting you up for, though? You could have said something very flattering.”</p><p>“David, considering that I came less than thirty seconds after seeing you naked for the first time, I don’t think you need any more flattery tonight. I’ve already stroked your ego more than enough.”</p><p>David opens his mouth to make the obligatory remark about that choice of verb—but before he gets the chance, Patrick rolls away from him. David props himself up on his elbows to watch as Patrick sits on the edge of the bed, and starts rummaging through his bag on the floor. “Okay, so when I wanted to get up, I was imprisoned, but <em> you </em>get to leave whenever you damn well please?”</p><p>“Yep.” Patrick produces a stack of neatly-folded pajamas, and one of those responsible little travel toothbrush-and-paste cases. “I get to shower first.”</p><p>David spreads his hands in a wide gesture of disbelief. “Um?!” </p><p>Patrick just flashes him a bright, infuriating smile. “See, I have this feeling that you take longer than me, and I’m not letting you use up all the hot water.” He leans in to give David a quick parting kiss like the ridiculous man he is, but with how they’re positioned, the only part of David he can reach is his shin. So he happily kisses David’s shin, like that’s a thing, like that’s something anyone has ever done. And he takes his pajamas and his toiletries and his shamelessly naked self, and disappears into the bathroom. </p><p>David hears the shower start, and he reminds himself to breathe.</p><p>For a moment, he considers being offended that he was just exiled to the bed while Patrick showers alone. But it’s only a moment. Then he remembers that there’s literally zero chance he’ll be able to go <em> another </em> round tonight, which means there’s zero chance it would be a fun shower even if David had been invited, and… well. David may be ready for a shower with Patrick where he ends up on his knees, but he’s not exactly ready for a shower with Patrick where he… showers. He’s not sure he’s ready for Patrick to see him get his hair wet, or scrub come out of his pubes, or contort himself to wash the bottoms of his feet. That’s still… they can still leave that in the box, for now. </p><p>Besides, he doesn’t have enough time for a good anxiety spiral, because Patrick is only gone for three minutes, if that. He reappears in his boring, practical pajamas, with his skin shower-pink, looking so goddamn <em> wholesome </em>it’s almost sickening. He looks like someone who belongs in an ad for tube socks, not like someone who just spent several hours waxing poetic about how hungry he is for cock.</p><p>Patrick bends down to drop his toothbrush back in his bag, and he smiles at David. And his eyes sort of… linger. His gaze shifts, traveling along David’s body, like he wasn’t expecting him to still be naked and so thoroughly debauched. Patrick’s face gets even pinker, and he looks away with an awkward little noise, and something clenches in David’s chest. </p><p>But David decides to be nice, for now, and not say anything. He grabs his bag, and makes his escape. And if he feels Patrick’s eyes follow him as he walks to the bathroom, well. That’s just a little bonus. </p><p>And from there, it’s simple. Finally, mercifully, it’s simple. It’s showering, it’s washing off come and lube and the smell of someone else’s sweat. It’s pajamas, and skincare, and transitioning himself from post-coital to… whatever happens after. </p><p>After.</p><p>That’s the tricky thing. That’s the part David’s been ignoring. What he’s been refusing to think about. But it’s not like he has that option, anymore.</p><p>His nightly routine usually takes thirty-seven minutes. On the dot. He has it down to a science. When he wants to, he can even abbreviate it to fifteen, with only the most necessary compromises. So it takes a shocking amount of imagination to stretch it out to almost an hour. He only brought his travel skincare products tonight, and he runs through each and every one of them, as slowly as possible, as many times as possible. There’s only so much he can come up with to kill time in this bathroom. Hell, he’s spent the last ten minutes aimlessly looting through Stevie’s toiletries (why isn’t her toothbrush here? Who the fuck keeps their toothbrush at the kitchen sink?).</p><p>This is ridiculous.</p><p>This is <em> fucking ridiculous.  </em></p><p>Patrick took all of ninety seconds to get ready for bed, and now he’s out there, in an empty apartment, in a bed where they just had the best sex of David’s life (twice), and David has left him alone out there for <em> fifty-one minutes. </em></p><p>He looks at his phone.</p><p>Fifty-two minutes. </p><p>Ridiculous. Even for him. A gorgeous, sweet, fucked-out man is lying in bed, waiting for him—  </p><p>David’s stomach twists. </p><p>He’s waiting for him. Patrick is out there, in bed, waiting. Patrick is there. He is. He is. Of course he is. </p><p>He didn’t leave. Of course he didn’t. </p><p>It doesn’t matter that this is when people leave. The sex was good, and now it’s done, and David went to get ready for bed, and now this is the part where he goes back out, and they’re gone. But that doesn’t matter. That may be how it usually goes, but that’s not happening now. This time, he’ll go out, and Patrick will still be there.</p><p>He will. </p><p>So David doesn’t need to keep hiding in the fucking bathroom, like a test, like he’s daring it to happen, like he’s too scared to face the reality of it. He doesn’t need to hide for fucking— </p><p>Fifty-five minutes. </p><p>God, he hates this. </p><p>He zips his bag, and turns off the light, and his heart doesn’t pound even a little as he leaves the bathroom. </p><p>Patrick is still here.</p><p>Of course he is.</p><p>He’s tucked against the headboard, with the covers pulled back on the other side like a neat little invitation (he apparently had no problem deciding their respective sides of the bed, and David doesn’t think about the psychology of that at all). He’s scrolling on his phone, and there’s still something soft and sex-stupid about his face, even after this much time.</p><p>It’s a good look for him.</p><p>Patrick looks at David, and his mouth twists up, wry and playful. “What?” </p><p>David frowns. “<em>What </em>what?” </p><p>“You look surprised.”</p><p>David bristles. “Excuse you, I am an enigma. It would take a doctorate in deciphering pretentious obfuscation to be able to read my emotions.”</p><p>Patrick laughs, like he thinks it’s a joke, and not a direct quote from David’s first college girlfriend when she dumped him on their one-month anniversary. </p><p>“So, if I had a doctorate in pretentious obfuscation,” Patrick says, “what exactly would I be reading right now?”</p><p>David goes to the nightstand and pretends to be very invested in plugging in his phone charger, because who fucking does that? Who just fucking <em> asks </em>‘What are you feeling right now?’ and expects a fucking answer?</p><p>David parses through his options. The full truth is obviously unacceptable, so he picks something a bit milder. “I’m not particularly familiar with this? With the whole—” he waves his hand at the nightstand, the pulled-back comforter, the cozy bedtime Patrick. “I just don’t have much experience sleeping with people.” He rolls his eyes at the phrasing. “I mean, <em> obviously </em>I’ve ‘slept with’ people. A lot. But there’s been less of the actual. Sleeping. With people. People I’m sleeping with.”</p><p>Patrick’s stupid, amused smile doesn’t go away. “And, if you didn’t sleep with people, what did you do when you were done ‘sleeping with’ them?”</p><p>“I left,” David says simply, because it’s a simple concept. “Or they did.”</p><p>“Every time?”</p><p>“I mean, no, not <em> every </em>time, but.” David becomes interested in the stitching at the hem of his sleeve. “If someone asks me to leave, it’s not like I’m going to argue.” </p><p>“What did you do when someone asked you to stay?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” </p><p>Shit. He didn’t mean to say that, that was entirely too much. He glances up— </p><p>Patrick’s face has gone so soft he looks like a soufflé, like one loud noise could make his whole head deflate. He puts down his phone, and sits up a little straighter. “David, will you stay with me tonight? I’d really like to get to sleep with you.”</p><p>David waits for him to crack, to laugh, to look away. </p><p>He doesn’t. He just stares David down with his awful soufflé eyes, and waits.</p><p>Eventually, David clears his throat. “Well, I can’t go out after my skincare is done, so. I don’t really have a choice.” </p><p>Patrick’s smile twists into a smirk. “Lucky me.”</p><p>David cautiously sits on the edge of the bed, hoping to get himself settled under the covers with the minimum amount of fuss, hoping that the moment will float past, unacknowledged.</p><p>But there wasn’t really much chance of that, was there?</p><p>Patrick has a firm grip on David’s hand before he even has a chance to lie down. So really, David has no choice but to let himself be tugged into Patrick’s arms and kissed. </p><p>David decides not to complain.</p><p>They taste like toothpaste (he has yet to succeed in destroying Patrick’s tube of Gel Time Tooth Product, so one of them tastes significantly more like a dollar store than the other). Patrick is still propped up against the headboard, so David can’t quite smother him the way he wants to, but he kneels over him and squeezes his shoulders and licks into his mouth and god, was this supposed to be a goodnight kiss? Patrick’s hands are pushing up David’s sweatshirt so he can run his nails down David’s back, and he’s kissing like a man who’s been starved for it, not like a man who’s come twice tonight.</p><p>The problem with kissing Patrick is that it’s addictive. All it takes is one slow, torturous scrape of Patrick’s teeth against his lower lip, and David is ready to sell his soul to have him do it again. Patrick scoots his way down the bed so he can lie down, and David makes an embarrassingly grateful noise as he <em> immediately </em>spreads out over him and presses him into the pillows. </p><p>“David,” Patrick whispers, as David slips his hands under his shirt. <em>“David,</em>” Patrick whimpers, as David runs his fingers across his stomach, slowly, reverently tracing the place they’d both painted with their come just a few hours ago. </p><p>David can’t help himself. He shifts down the bed, rucks up Patrick’s shirt with needy hands, and gets his mouth on Patrick’s stomach. Even though the only thing to taste now is clean skin, David runs his tongue over every inch of him. He licks in broad, flat strokes, greedily lapping up the memory.</p><p>And he thinks that Patrick gets it. Judging by the way he yanks on David’s hair and <em> groans </em> his name like a curse, he seems to understand perfectly. Patrick makes the same low, filthy sound he’d made when he’d run his fingers through it, when he’d looked down and watched himself play with the mess on his skin like it was a priceless treasure, like it was liquid gold instead of semen. There have been a lot of discoveries tonight, but none as unexpected or <em> beautiful </em>as finding out that decent little button-up Patrick Brewer is a goddamn comeslut.</p><p>Patrick makes another broken sound as David dips his tongue into his belly button. David can feel Patrick’s dick twitch in his pajamas… and that’s certainly intriguing. He traces another path with his tongue, then latches onto Patrick’s hip and starts sucking a dark, sloppy hickey.</p><p>“Oh fu—<em> christ, </em>David!” Patrick’s back arches, and David can feel how desperately he’s gasping for air. </p><p>So David shifts down, just out of curiosity. Just to see. He nuzzles his face against Patrick’s groin, and gives a questioning hum.</p><p>“Yeah,” Patrick groans, “yeah David, <em> please.</em>”</p><p>Well, since he asked nicely.</p><p>David breathes out along the outline of Patrick’s cock. And something about that, about the feeling of his soft cock starting to jerk against David’s lips, makes David’s mouth <em> water </em>enough to dampen the fabric. He feels another promising twitch… then another… then… </p><p>Hm.</p><p>Patrick finally lets go of David’s hair. He scrubs his hands across his face and laughs, a little embarrassed, maybe. “I don’t think it’s gonna happen.” He looks at David through his spread fingers. “Sorry.”</p><p>David snorts. “For what, not being able to get it up <em> three times </em>in one night? I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’re not twenty anymore.”</p><p>“David, when I was twenty I could barely get it up once, most nights.”</p><p>He— </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Patrick’s smile goes lopsided. “C’mere.” He grabs David’s arm and starts tugging. “I have a very important question for you: Are you more of a big spoon, or little spoon?”</p><p>David frowns. “I object to that question.”</p><p>“Why’s that?” Patrick tugs harder.</p><p>“You don’t put different sized spoons together! That’s not a thing!” David lets himself be dragged up the bed, but he will not let this slide. “The correct position for a big spoon and a little spoon is in <em>separate drawers.</em>” Patrick hums affirmatively and starts kissing David’s neck. “Besides, basing your identity around one position is needlessly limiting. Both options have unique merits and drawbacks.”</p><p>“Okay, David,” Patrick laughs against the hinge of David’s jaw. He pulls David down and nudges and shifts him until they’re on their sides, picking their positions with the same confidence as he’d picked their sides of the bed. And apparently, Patrick has deemed David the—the whatever the not-stupid term is for the little spoon. The inside spoon. The cuddled spoon. Patrick slides his knee over David’s leg, and tucks his arm around David’s waist, and—oh. He presses his lips to the back of David’s neck. </p><p>It’s… weird. It should be weird. It should be smothering and uncomfortable. David hasn’t been with many people who could legitimately be described as ‘cuddlers’. Even the ones who liked a bit of good old-fashioned intimacy after sex didn’t… do it like this. </p><p>And David doesn’t like to cuddle, really. Not in this extended sense, anyway. It’s nice for the cool-down, for the time between orgasms. But in the long term, it’s claustrophobic. There’s sweat, and muscle cramps, and breath in your face. It’s barely been a full minute, and there’s already muggy heat trapped between David’s back and Patrick’s front. Patrick’s breath is tickling David’s ear. Patrick’s arm is so tight around him that he can’t move. By all rights, this should be terrible. </p><p>Patrick keeps pressing those slow, soft kisses to David’s neck. His hand slips under David’s sweatshirt. And… maybe cuddling deserves a second chance, actually. </p><p>Patrick muffles a noise into David’s hair. It’s a moan, but it’s not like, a sexy moan. It’s quiet, and gentle, and it just sounds. Happy.</p><p>David closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath. And he tries not to think about it. The press of Patrick’s stomach as he inhales, the gentle trail of his fingers from David’s hip, up to his chest. The softness, the irrational idea that Patrick is feeling it too, that maybe, <em> maybe </em>he feels just as comfortable, just as good as David does. David breathes, and he tries to ignore it. </p><p>It’s frightening to know you’re going to lose something you hope will be good. But, as it turns out, it’s terrifying to know you’re going to lose something that’s so much better than you imagined. David always knew Patrick would be vaguely… this. That he’d be kind, and thoughtful, and all those other adjectives David had never really needed in his vocabulary before. Patrick Brewer is a good boyfriend (they’re not doing ‘boyfriend’), and David didn’t need to go on a single date with him to know that. It’s obvious. It’s written all over his button face, all over his sensible shirts and easy smiles and macchiatos he buys without being asked. </p><p>But David was completely unprepared for the reality of it. The reality of Patrick’s affection, his smiles and kisses and teasing and stubbornness—and now these new things, too, his body and his moans and his shy, overwhelming desire. Any piece of it is more than David has ever been taught to expect, so having <em> all </em>of it is— </p><p>It’s not the first time David has imagined Patrick leaving him. But it is the first time that David has thought about losing him, and known exactly what he’s going to lose. He didn’t <em> know </em>before. He had an idea, but it was just an outline. It was empty. In just these couple of weeks, that outline has already filled in so much. Patrick’s not the bland, featureless cookie-cutter David shoved into the story he was writing for himself. He’s not a placeholder, or an ideal. Now he’s… a person. With details, with nooks and crannies and goods and bads that David hadn’t considered. He’s real, now. It’s real, now.</p><p>And it’s so much worse. It gets worse with every new thing David learns, every detail that gets added to the picture. Because now, when they have to go back to how things were, David will know what he’s missing. When Patrick isn’t his anymore, David will remember when he was. When he gets caught staring at Patrick’s lips, he’ll have to look away. He won’t be able to smirk, to say “Kiss me”, to loop his fingers into that hideous braided belt and drag him into the stockroom. When Patrick inevitably finds someone else, David will know, he’ll smile and make appropriately teasing jokes and he’ll watch Patrick be with someone else, and he’ll know what that is like, he’ll know what Patrick is giving to someone else. </p><p>And when David goes back to his empty bed, he’ll know how it feels to be… here. Patrick pressed against his back, tracing aimless patterns on his skin. David knows what it’s like now, and he already knows that he’ll never be able to un-know it. He’ll be able to feel the absence of it, when the time comes. Every new thing he learns about being with Patrick, every day, every detail. It all just makes the picture clearer. More complete.</p><p>He knew that it would hurt. But today, he realizes that it’ll always be worse tomorrow. </p><p>Patrick’s teeth graze David’s earlobe. </p><p>David breathes. Now’s not the time. That’s later.</p><p>Patrick’s hand is on David’s hip. He presses forward, and even though his dick is soft, it still manages to be a very noticeable presence against David’s ass. </p><p>“Mm, what are you thinking about?” David asks, because he can’t handle the silence, the noise of his thoughts—and he can’t help seeing how Patrick likes being on the receiving end of that question. </p><p>Patrick presses his lips to David’s shoulder. “The beautiful man in my arms.”</p><p>How— </p><p>David’s face constricts. “How do you just… <em> say </em>things like that?”</p><p>“What, the truth?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Patrick is quiet for a moment. “I don’t know,” he says into the crook of David’s neck. “It’s easy, with you. You make me want to be honest.”</p><p>David squeezes his eyes shut. </p><p>There has to be a comeback to that. David needs to come up with <em> something </em>to say to that, something bitchy and horrible, something that makes him sound like an asshole. He knows he could think of something. But he wouldn’t be able to say it, because his voice would break. </p><p>God, it’s gonna be so much harder to lose this, now that he’s had it. </p><p>Patrick laughs. It’s quiet, it’s barely more than a puff of warm breath on David’s neck. But it’s still unmistakable: It’s a laugh.</p><p>And even though David knows better, he still feels a cold stab of fear in his stomach, the certainty that if there’s laughter, it’s aimed at him. “What?”</p><p>Patrick shakes his head. “I just—” He sighs, and his whole body sags, relaxing against David. “I didn’t know it could feel like this. I didn’t know it could be this good. Did you?” </p><p>David wants to laugh. He maybe wants to cry, a bit. He wants to go home, where he doesn’t have to feel this much, where having a heart is less complicated. He never wants this to end. He wants to make a joke, he wants to lie. </p><p>He wants to tell the truth. And nothing has ever been so frightening.</p><p>“No,” he whispers. “But—but I’m. Learning.”</p><p>Patrick hums. He snuggles in again, giving David’s hip one more squeeze. “Goodnight, David.”</p><p>“Goodnight, Patrick.”</p><p>“Sleep well.”</p><p>David laughs without meaning to. Who <em> says </em>that? No one actually fucking says that. “Yeah. I’ll… try,” he says, because how the fuck else do you respond to that?</p><p>Patrick kisses his neck again, and burrows his face into the pillow, and… </p><p>Okay. This is obviously temporary. Spooning is nice as an abstract concept, but no one actually <em> sleeps </em>like this. Stevie may not have a Texas King, but there’s room for them to not be literally plastered against each other for the next six hours (David set his alarm unacceptably early so they’ll have plenty of time for morning sex, which he cannot wait for and already deeply regrets). He assumes Patrick is aware that this is ridiculous, and he’ll get his fill of cuddling for a few minutes, then roll away.</p><p>So David decides… to enjoy it, while he can. He enjoys the closeness, the heat that’s too much to be comfortable, the tangle of their limbs under the blankets, the idle touch of Patrick’s fingers, and the… the feeling of it. The lack of ambiguity. The constant proof of just… being here. Being wanted. David doesn’t know how long he’s going to have this, so he’s going to appreciate it. He’s not going to get used to it, because that’ll just make things worse. He’s not going to let himself acclimate to this, to feeling it, to getting to have it. He’s not acclimating. He’s just… savoring.</p><p>He knows he should be sleeping, he knows he’ll be too crabby for morning sex if he doesn’t get at least a few hours of sleep. But he couldn’t fall asleep right now if his life depended on it. His head is spinning. He feels lit up, overcharged, like he could shoot off sparks if he tried. Because he gets to have this right now, he gets to have <em> this, </em> he gets to be in Patrick’s arms and feel him drift off against his back, he gets to feel what it’s like for Patrick to want him, and he’s supposed to just fucking <em> sleep </em>through it? Fuck off! He’s gonna lie here and feel every goddamn second of it until it gets taken away from him. He’s not gonna be ungrateful. </p><p>Eventually, Patrick’s fingers stop moving. Eventually, he starts snoring. It’s not loud, just heavy, audible breathing. David usually hates snoring, but this is… fine. This is okay. This is survivable. </p><p>This is nice. </p><p>Patrick’s snoring gets heavier. David’s heart calms the fuck down. There’s a clock ticking somewhere, but David can’t see it. He doesn’t know how much time passes, but it’s probably been a while. The lack of movement is starting to feel a little creaky—he’s pretty sure his knees will snap like glow sticks when he straightens his legs. </p><p>Patrick obviously didn’t mean to fall asleep like this. No one can sleep through the night like this, because people aren’t spoons. </p><p>Alright. </p><p>David extracts himself as gently as possible. Patrick’s arm has been slack around him for, maybe an hour at this point? So it’s easy for David to shift onto his back and scoot himself away. He shimmies onto his own pillow, putting an actual strip of empty bed between them for the first time since they got here. </p><p>Patrick takes a loud breath. He lifts his head, and blinks. His eyes are bleary, completely glazed over, like he isn’t really awake. </p><p>But still, he sees David. He sighs, and clumsily shoves David’s closest arm out of the way so he can tuck himself underneath it. He flops his arm across David’s waist, and hitches his leg up over David’s thighs, and rubs his face against David’s shoulder. He takes a deep, <em> deep </em>breath into David’s sweatshirt, and it comes out as a quiet, devastating moan. </p><p>And he’s snoring again.</p><p>David laughs, as quietly as he can. He feels dizzy, high on this feeling of… feeling. Patrick is snoring on his chest, and he… </p><p>He doesn’t have the words for this. He’s never learned.</p><p>He rubs his fingers against his palm, considering. He doesn’t want to risk waking Patrick up, but… </p><p>He brushes his fingertips behind Patrick’s ear. Patrick makes a sleepy little noise… but he doesn’t wake up. So David carefully, <em> carefully </em>rests his hand on the back of Patrick’s head. He runs his fingers through his short, boring hair, and Patrick whimpers, and— </p><p>David reminds himself to breathe.</p><p>Breathe. </p><p>Breathe.</p><p>He’s not going to be able to sleep like this. But, at the very least, he’s gonna lie here, and match his breathing to Patrick’s, and hold Patrick to his chest. And he’s gonna savor this, for as long as he can. For as long as he’s allowed to have it. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*Slaps David Rose's back* You can fit so many self-esteem issues and destructive tendencies in this bad boy.</p><p>Title taken from "This Will End" by The Oh Hellos.</p><p>As always, thank you so much for reading! I'd always love to hear from you, either here or over on my <a href="https://my-nameless-bliss.tumblr.com/post/637659754534207488">tumblr</a>! Wash your hands, check in with someone you love, and take care of yourselves!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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